


Untitled

by DriftDive



Category: Persona 3, Persona 5
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self Harm, This was a vent thing I wrote 6 months ago when it seemed like the world was ending, but hey, depression i guess, the world in fact did not end, this still is a decent read I suppose, uhhhh, warnings for alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 23:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DriftDive/pseuds/DriftDive
Summary: This isn't the first time he's done this.





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Vent work. There is Akira/Minato at the end and mentioned throughout, but honestly,, it's not the focus of the story. Srry I teased all 4 of u who like this ship, I'm right there with u tho

This isn't the first time he's done this.

Door shut, he leans against his bed with a half empty bottle of shitty alcohol and a knife in his other hand. Drunk, dazed, and miserable, he carves thin lines into his wrists and ankles. Akira'll be mad, yeah, but he's not thinking of Akira right now. He's thinking about himself, about what a failure he was, is, will always be.

Squinting at the trickles of blood down his leg, his drunken mind makes a simple connection.

Taking the bottle of alcohol, he lazily pours it into his wound. The burn is sharp, but barely there. Minato groans. Deeper, it'll hurt.

He makes another slice, then goes over the track twice. It burns. Good.

Minato fumbles with the knife, deciding to forgo it completely. It clatters to the ground. Holding open his wound, he pours the alcohol into it again-- and he actually screams.

"Motherfucker-!"

The savage sting surprises him. He shakes his leg, teeth grit. The bottle spills on the floor, and he's assaulted with the stench of alcohol. He stomps his foot and tips over, collapsing into the puddle of liquid regret.

As he lies there with both arms bleeding, both ankles now burning, and clothes beginning to soak, he sniffles.

Then, he's crying-- sobbing, really. He sobs into his bloodied wrists, wishing he wasn't like this, half a person and none all at the same time. Pathetic, sad, lonely... the list goes on.

One of these days, when he's feeling like this, when it's this bad... he'll just do it, end it all, maybe with his antidepressants or a knife in the throat. The thought is eerie, horrific, but it calms him down. To know there's an end in sight, it makes the pain dull.

His eyes lidding, Minato shakily draws lines in the liquor, of nothing in particular.

He should have painted. Alcohol was a mistake. All it got him was a headache. Akira would have been happy with a painting, because it would have been a sign of healing, of improvement.

Instead, Akira would come home to this. His pissbaby of a boyfriend, drunk and bleeding and reeking of alcohol, all because his fucking brain couldn't make endorphins. He was a bland, miserable fuck with no future, who would die early. 

Akira didn't deserve this. Akira didn't deserve the baggage Minato came with. Rolling onto his back, Minato stares at the ceiling with shaky vision.

He wishes Akira were here. That he was drunk too, and this wasn't the mess he'd become now. He wishes he wasn't so unstable that he could hold a job, that he didn't know how to pick locks to get into he liquor cabinet, because now Akira would find him like this and there wouldn't be a liquor cabinet anymore.

"I'm so fucked up," Minato slurs to himself, dragging a hand over his messed bangs. He isn't sure if he's referring to his state of being or himself as a whole. Probably both.

His fingers find the bottle again, and he drags it to his lips. Taking the last few remaining sips, he impulsively tosses the bottle at the wall. It shatters, deep brown specks of glass flying this way and that.

It might be pretty, if the sunlight could hit it. Instead, the shades are drawn tightly, the world outside spared from the spectacle Minato's gone and made of himself.

"The show, must go on," Minato sings, waving one hand in a pattern. He's mocking someone, he's sure. A carnival barker, or maybe himself.

Mocking himself is second nature, because abstractly, he knows how fucking stupid this is, how idiotic it is that he can't function like a normal person, that he fantasizes over death to the point of obsession. Somewhere along the line, he knows it was ironic, but further down, it stopped being like that.

Minato really wanted to fucking die.

"I want to die," he whispers, expression serious. He ending up giggling.

"I want to die!" He shouts at nothing, "strike me the fuck down, I'm ready!"

Sitting up, he grabs his knife again and points it as his throat. The thought of finally doing this, of driving the knife in finally... it makes him feel better.

Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, and...

The knife is taken out of his hands, gently. He blinks his eyes open blearily, glaring at whatever bastard went ahead and intervened.

Tearful brown eyes stare back at him, and he shuffles away. He slips on the alcohol, and he's stuck on his back-- again.

"Minato," Akira's voice is stern, unhappy.

"What?" He snaps, "y'should just. Let me do it. I'm a fuckin' bitch, y'know."

"You aren't..." Akira exhales, walking around to pick Minato up. He flails half heartedly as Akira drags him to the bathroom, stripping him and pushing him under a warm shower. He leaves for five minutes, then comes back with clean clothes. Akira does all the work, dries Minato off and dresses him. He sits Minato down on the floor, sitting across from him.

"..."

Akira grabs his wrist, examining the fresh wounds there.

"Fuck off," Minato tugs his arm away, leaning against the tub.

"How much did you drink?" Akira asks, and Minato waves him off.

"Not enough to die. That's all you care about."

"No, it isn't," Akira puts his head in his hands. He wants to crumble, to scream and cry and hit Minato and leave him there on the bathroom floor, but he can't do it. He would never.

Akira stands, searching the cabinets for gauze.

When he sits down again, Minato is crying silently. Wordlessly, Akira starts dressing his wounds.

"...Why do you do this," Minato finally stammers, looking over his freshly bandaged wrist.

"Because I love you, Minato."

"..."

He's dressing the wounds on his ankle when Minato shakes his head.

"You deserve better then me. I'm so fucked. I'm so fucked, Akira..."

"No, you aren't... you aren't fucked, and I don't deserve better then you because I love you. I don't want anyone else."

Once he's bandaged, Akira helps him up.

"C'mon. I'll put you to bed, okay?"

Minato doesn't reply. He hobbles along, still crying.

Once Akira lays him down, Minato grips his wrist.

"D-don't, don't leave, okay? I just, I..." Minato stammers, his mind a twisted mess of guilt, depression, and confusion.

"Okay," Akira replies, voice quiet. Slipping into bed beside Minato, he holds his boyfriend close.

Minato clings to him, sobbing quietly into the front of his shirt. There are so many things he wants to say, so many drunken thoughts that want to rise, but he can't say anything. Akira strokes his hair, not caring about the unkempt knots and tangles.

"It's okay, Minato... it's okay. Just sleep. Tomorrow is a new day, and we can try again."

Try again.

Try for what? Minato wonders, but it doesn't matter. Right now, he was close to passing out from his binge, he was in Akira's arms, and, distantly, he knew he was taken care of. That he was loved.


End file.
